


Metal and Moss

by tonyendo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, F/F, Fluff, Piercings, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27404956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonyendo/pseuds/tonyendo
Summary: It is astounding how different one’s life can end up given a few minor changes. A nasty divorce here, a bit of child abandonment there, and the course of fate is sent veering off into another direction.Moira and Clover are not doctors here— Moira does piercings for a living, and Clover sells plants.- - -A Flower Shop/Tattoo Parlor AU, if for no one but myself.Nothing bad happens here. Everyone deserves a bit of joy. My children will be happy, god damn it.
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Original Character(s), Moira O'Deorain/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

It is astounding how different one’s life can end up given a few minor changes. A nasty divorce here, a bit of child abandonment there, and the course of fate is sent veering off into another direction.

No labs, no Overwatch, no Talon. Life should have been easy. It should have been a breath of fresh air.

“Did you balance the books this month?” Gabe called from his office.

“Did you pay rent?” Moira shot back.

He scoffed at her. “Would be a lot easier if you’d do your job. Can’t very well pay it until I know how much money we have.”

Moira sighed, shaking her head. “I’ll see to it this afternoon.”

“Did you see our new neighbors?” He went to lean on her piercing table, only to get shooed away and glared at. She returned to wiping it down once his hands were off of it.

“I did not, no.”

“Didn’t even glance at it?”

Moira scoffed, spraying down the chair with disinfectant. “Are you implying you’d like me to buy you _flowers,_ Gabriel?”

“No, I’m implying you should _look out the fucking window,_ you useless lesbian.”

Irritate, she snapped her gaze up to the street. The sight she was met with made her emotions waver, her heart shooting to her throat.

Her office had a street-front view. From where she stood, she could make out one of her new business neighbors moving around in front of her store, adjusting plants and displays to her liking.

Even from across the street, bathed in warm spring sunlight, she could tell the woman was beautiful. Even when she nearly knocked a pot off the stand while watering it.

“See what I mean now?”

She shot him a pointed glare. “What do you take me for? I don’t fuck every woman that walks by, Gabriel.” 

“Could have fooled me,” he muttered under his breath. Catching her expression, he stole from the room before he could take a spritz of bleach solution to the eyes.

Her eyes wandered to the window again.

Moira was halfway across the street before she remembered that she didn’t know a damn thing about gardening.

The woman she’d seen had retreated into the store several minutes prior, and she was silently thankful to find the main shop empty as she entered the building. The door chimed as she stepped in.

It was worse than she’d imagined. Every surface was covered in a different plant. Displays were grouped by type, but were nearly overflowing with greenery. There were little display cards, but she couldn’t be bothered to read a single one.

“Hello!” The greeting nearly made her jump out of her skin. The brunette poked her head around a doorframe. Her cheerful expression faltered as she seemed taken aback for a moment before it slid into place again. Walking into the area fully, she dusted her hands onto her apron. “Can I help you find something?”

Her short hair licked up at the ends, and she looked youthful and care-free. Wide hazel eyes studied patiently from behind round glasses.

Moira opened her mouth a few times, taking in her appearance. “Your, ah… your septum is perfect.”

Her lips twitched into a frown at the comment, and Moira mentally kicked herself. “Thank you?”

Quickly, she began to backpedal. “ _For a piercing,_ I mean. Plenty of space to work with…” She grimaced at her uncharacteristic tumbling. “I work across the street—”

She smiled, then. “I know. If your appearance didn’t give it away, I, uh… watched you walk over here.” She gestured to Moira, who glanced down at her shirt. It had the logo of the parlor on it. When she looked back up, she found a flush dusting the woman’s cheeks.

She was sure the rest of her appearance was off putting. Her own septum was decorated with a ring, her ears holding more metal than likely advised, and a choker wrapped around her throat. At least Olivia had been in a good enough mood to touch up her roots— she would have hated to meet the woman with ginger standing out against the deep navy she had been sporting for several months.

If there was a merciful God watching them, he would have been kind enough to smite her down. Moira’s ears reddened in embarrassment as she nodded. “ _Yeah._ Of course you did.”

The woman smiled again, and she felt her heart struggle to keep up. “I’m Moira.” She offered a hand. “I came to introduce myself.” Not a lie— she’d wanted to see the woman up close and in person. Good God, she was prettier than she had anticipated. It wasn’t every day such a simple ‘girl next door’ rendered her speechless.

It wasn’t everyday _anyone_ rendered her speechless.

The woman accepted it, her own much smaller and softer. Of course, most people had smaller hands than Moira— she dwarfed everyone she came across. Everyone had to look up to meet her gaze. The woman before her was no exception, but instead of intimidation in her large hazel eyes, she found joy.

“Clover. It’s lovely to meet you, Moira.”

She couldn’t bite her tongue fast enough. “Your name’s Clover and you run a _flower shop?_ ”

She frowned again, looking almost hurt by the comment, and Moira wanted to cut her own tongue out.

“What can I say,” she tried to brush it off. “My mother likes plants.”

“And my mother is painfully Catholic.”

She laughed and Moira’s embarrassment ebbed with the sound

Clover glanced down to their hands. She flipped Moira’s, taking in the appearance. Her thumb brushed over the few small tattoos she had across her knuckles— an all seeing eye, her zodiac, a few different bits and bobs she let Olivia adorn her with. A few of them could stand to be touched up. However, she seemed more focused on her manicure than the art. “You can tattoo with these?” 

She scoffed, withdrawing her hand reluctantly. “Bold of you to assume I’m artistically inclined. No— I do the piercings for the shop. Apologies if you were looking into getting some ink. Gabriel, or perhaps Olivia would be your best bet.” After a moment she smirked. “Unless you just really want me.”

Her face turned red. “Oh! No, no that’s not— I don’t—”

She had to swallow her grin at how flustered the comment made her. “Afraid of needles?”

“Only the small ones that jab into you a million times,” she grumbled, moving around the counter to put distance between them. Moira found she didn’t want her to go.

“Only a million and one,” she teased, delighted at how easy she was to fluster. “If you’re ever interested in having that septum done, I’d make it quick. Only _one_ jab,” she promised.

Clover huffed and started misting down a table of succulents. “Do you do this every time a new store moves in on the street? Harass them until they inevitably feel obligated to visit your business?”

She raised her eyebrows, contemplating it. Typically she didn’t give a second look to the shops that came and went. “Only the ones that interest me,” she decided. “I wouldn’t mind seeing more of you.”

Mentally, she scolded herself for that one. She was laying it on thick, for reasons she didn’t consciously understand.

She busied herself with looking around. She circled the table of succulents, glancing across the wide assortment of plants. She hesitated as a small grouping in particular caught her eye.

Blinking, she leaned closer. “They look like—”

“—bunnies?” Clover finished. When Moira glanced up, she caught her smiling. “ _Monilaria Moniliformis_ — string of pearls, or… _bunny ears,_ as some people call them.” She pointedly moved her water bottle to mist them, careful not to catch Moira. “They’re gonna lose their ears soon. They’ll be back, though.”

Moira nodded, looking back to them. “Ah. Interesting.”

Clover set the sprayer aside, instead opting to pick one up. She held it out to Moira expectantly. Blinking, she glanced up to her, confused. The woman held it out more insistently. 

The realization that she wanted her to have it hit her harder than it should have. “Oh! No, no I can’t simply take it.” She started fumbling for her wallet. “After all, what type of woman would I be if I didn’t pay?”

Clover moved around the table. She took one of Moira’s hands, pushing the small pot into it. “Please— It’s a gift.” The corners of her eyes creased as she beamed at her.

Moira swallowed thickly, nodding. She couldn’t say no to her. “Thank you.”

She looked down at the little pot, and where their hands were touching again.

Clearing her throat, Clover seemed to notice their prolonged contact as well. She pulled away, albeit hesitantly. “Like I said— they’re gonna be losing their leaves soon. You’ll be doing me a favor, actually, taking it. Uh… we don’t expect a lot of traffic, I don’t think.”

Moira shrugged, careful not to drop the small plastic pot. “It gets busier in the summer, I assure you.”

“That’s a relief,” she breathed, nodding. “Peak season for gardening.” She leaned against the counter and gazed across her shop.

They sat in an awkward silence. After forty-five seconds of dead air, they both attempted to speak at the same time.

“I should get going—”

“— my mother will be back soon—”

They both stopped abruptly, faces red.

Moira nodded, holding up the plant as a mock toast. “Of course. Thank you again, and have a— have a good evening, yea?”

She rushed back across the street as fast as her legs would carry her without looking like an idiot.

When she entered her own building again, a far away expression had taken over her expression.

“You look like someone just got the jump on you,” Gabe snorted from the lobby computer. “I can’t believe you went over there and came back with a plant. Going soft, O’Deorain?”

“Bite me,” she muttered, crossing the lobby and disappearing into her studio and slamming the door.

“Balance the books!” He yelled through the wall.

Moira looked down at the pot in her hands. Her eyebrows furrowed as she studied it again. She gently set it down on her work counter, nudging it’s position a few times before she was finally happy with the placement. It wouldn’t be in the way of her work, and it admittedly livened up the dark room.

Now all she had to do was not kill the gift she’d been bestowed. Not too hard, right?

Only, she knew she had a black thumb. Plants never thrive under her care— they withered, quite quickly as well. She’d managed to kill a cactus in secondary school.

She could always pop back in across the street. She could ask questions, get new soil, perhaps a bigger pot if it was required. It wouldn’t hurt to see Clover again, either. Truth be told she was _waiting_ for the chance to see her again— to not stumble over her words and make a downright fool of herself.

Moira groaned and threw herself into her desk chair. What had she gotten herself into?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is straight up just for fun, so apologies if anything feels OOC (god knows I write Moira how I want)

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result each time.

No wonder she felt like she was going mad every time she saw Angela Ziegler.

It would start the same— one would call for the other, someone’s resolve would give, and they’d end up tangled between the sheets. Moira would mumble sweet nothings in her ear as her fingers wandered, up until the woman was putty beneath her and unable to form a coherent thought.

She never received the same affections.

It drove her insane.

They’d have five minutes of something loosely defined as ‘cuddling’ before the bickering would start in. The arguments all melded together, and she found she couldn’t even remember what had prompted their harsh words that evening. All she knew was Angela was readying to leave her, again, thrown aside like a toy.

Angela shook her head as she started pulling on her bra. “Really! You are thirty-two years old, when are you going to start acting like it? How are you _so content_ to sit here and waste your life away—”

“I’m sorry that we can’t all go to _medical school._ ”

Angela huffed at her. “Perhaps if you _applied yourself more,_ you could have.”

Moira snatched her cigarettes from her nightstand. “Maybe if you weren’t such a pillow princess, you’d see a bit more of that application.” Digging one out, she settled it between her lips and fished out her lighter. Gabriel could hound her about smoking in the apartment at a later time.

Angela scowled at her. “You’re such a child, Moira. You can’t pretend you’re still eighteen forever.”

“I’m not the one pretending here,” she muttered around the cigarette. After lighting it, she took a quick drag before pulling it away. “Last I checked, you’re the one who so desperately calls me up for a jag when things start going awol, no? What was it this time? Dissertation too stressful for you, _love?”_ The pet name was full of vitriol.

Hopping into her jeans, she shot a glare at the other woman. “Really? You’re going to be mad at me for pursuing a degree that actually _helps_ people? How selfish of you, Moira. Do you think you can live off this little hobby of yours forever?”

“It is not a _hobby,”_ she hissed. “Being a piercer is as much of a job as any other. There is a demand for body modifications, is there not?” 

Just not in their area, it felt like. Each month, going over their earnings, the margin between _profit_ and _loss_ became smaller. She and Gabriel had just narrowly managed to afford rent for their apartment that month. At least it was another thirty days of having a place to stay. Gabriel would sooner give up his home to keep the storefront open.

Moira narrowed her eyes. “Why is it that you never make such comments to Gabriel? To _Olivia?”_ She stepped out of bed, the sheets falling away from her thin frame. “You act _so_ bitter towards me— yet, it seems you can’t stay away. How _ironic,_ Angel.”

“This is nothing if not transactional.”

Moira felt the blood rise to her face. “ _Get out._ ”

Angela hastily tugged on a shirt, but Moira shook her head, snubbing out her smoke in an ashtray that could stand to be cleaned. Crossing the small room, she grabbed the fabric, tugging. “You are _not_ walking out of here with _my_ clothes!”

Steely blue eyes flared with evident irritation. “Fine!” she snapped, pulling the top over her head. Moira couldn’t stop herself as her eyes dipped to the woman’s breasts. She only got a moment’s glance before her own t-shirt was wadded and thrown in her face.

Correcting her actions, Angela pulled on her _own_ shirt before storming from the room. Gabriel said something from the living room— “leaving again?”— and Moira didn’t give a damn about modesty as she caught the doorframe in nothing but boxers.

“Next time you want someone finger deep in you, don’t _fuckin’_ call me!” she spat. The front door slammed behind Angela, and Moira slunk back into her bedroom, her own door being thrown shut as well.

She needed half an hour to calm down before she could walk back out, dressed properly, and face whatever biting comment Gabriel had readied.

He was sitting on the couch, half watching the television and half strumming his acoustic guitar. It was a melody she’d heard him play many times— no name to it, but the chords always managed to soothe her irritations, if only for a little while.

Her face was buried in the fridge when he spoke. “She’s never going to love _you,_ Moi. Only what you can do for her. Why do you keep torturing yourself?”

The back of her head caught the fridge as she tried to stand up. She shot a glare at him as she rubbed the sore spot.

She kicked the fridge closed behind her before crossing to the living room. She sank next to him on the couch, passing over a bottle of whatever cheap beer he’d bought that week. “If she can’t love me, no one can.”

“I love you.”

She looked at him warily, halfway through twisting the top off with her palm and the hem of her shirt. “You have to say that.”

“I don’t. I don’t even have to be your friend.”

Huffing out a laugh, she finally opened the bottle with a _hiss_. “Who else would you bother the piss out of?”

“I have other people.”

“Yeah? How’s that doe-eyed barista treating you?”

Gabe’s lip ticked up, a sneer threatening. His fingers plucked a sour note from the instrument in his hands. “That’s different.”

“Is it? By God, Gabriel, are you ever gonna work up the nerve to talk to him?”

“Okay—” he set the guitar aside, too frustrated to continue,— “First of all, his name is _Jack_.”

Moira raised the glass bottle to her lips. “Congratulations, you can read a name tag.”

“He’s from _Indiana,—_ “

“Polite conversation.”

“— and he’s _gay._ ”

Moira offered him a mock golf clap. “Someone in your demographic, how exciting.”

“At least I fuck other gays and not just any milf in the middle of a mid life crisis looking for the thrill of an alternative woman.”

Moira sighed before tipping back her beer. She couldn’t argue with that one.

It felt second nature— perhaps she’d conditioned herself into seeking affection anywhere she could get it. Her expression twisted at the thought. No, no she didn’t _need_ affection, or even craved it. Sex was fun— sex was an outlet, it was a pastime. Did it really matter who it was with if, for a few minutes every so often, she could focus on someone _other_ than herself?

Though, Gabriel had a point. As much as she didn’t give a damn about the middle aged mothers that came in, looking for a fun Friday activity with their book club friends, who saw her as more of a trophy lay, a shiny bauble, than a _person,_ she knew she was only opening herself up to being used.

Perhaps that’s why being called _transactional_ by the woman she actually cared for hurt so damn much.

Was she no more disposable than the needles she worked with?

Moira pushed herself from the couch. Gabe’s eyes flicked up, following her movements through the living space. “I was going to order takeout. Want anything?”

“No,” she answered immediately. Her stomach was already in knots. “I’m going to bed.”


End file.
